


Mistletoe and a Miracle

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, HP: EWE, Mistletoe, One Shot, Three Broomsticks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 19:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13083549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: When Draco Malfoy runs into an old flame outside of the Three Broomsticks on Christmas Eve, he's suddenly reminded that he made a very big mistake by leaving. Written for the 2017 Strictly Dramione Secret Santa Fic Exchange.Prompt #30: Chance encounter. Christmas Eve, the Three Broomsticks, Post Battle of Hogwarts, EWE. "Why? Are you afraid, Malfoy?"





	Mistletoe and a Miracle

Draco Malfoy wandered Hogsmeade, admiring the Christmas lights twinkling from the roofs of the buildings in the little village. Christmas had always been his favorite time of the year. Though he appreciated magic every day, it always seemed a little more wondrous during the holidays. His father thought him soft for his love of the twinkling lights, but he didn’t care. A lot had changed since the war, and Draco actively tried to distance himself from the sullen child he’d been. If he wanted to admire the lights on Christmas Eve, then he would.

 

Lost in his thoughts, Draco didn’t realize a door just in front of him had opened until he collided with a very warm—and very feminine—figure and crashed to the ground, a muttered expletive falling from his mouth. He could only imagine how many people had sniggered at the Malfoy heir flailing through the air and landing on his arse. 

 

“Oh, bugger! I should pay more attention to what I’m doing.” The feminine figure had a familiar voice, but Draco couldn’t quite place it until he shook his blond tresses out of his eyes. He followed the hand that was reaching down toward him up to where it connected to a shoulder covered in barely-tamed curls. Big, brown eyes peered back at him.

 

“Granger?” Disbelief laced his voice. Of course, he’d run into her when he least expected it. That’s how his luck tended to treat him. 

 

An embarrassed flush climbed up her face, and the witch shook her hand in his face. “I’ve told you it’s Hermione. The least you could do is let me help you up since I knocked you over.” 

 

Draco inclined his head and took her hand. She pulled him to his feet and shuffled awkwardly as he brushed snow off himself. 

 

He could feel her eyes  brushing  over him, and he smirked to himself. Neither of them had returned to Hogwarts after the war, but they had both been profiled by the newspapers for their prolific lives: Hermione for her political achievements and Draco for his post-war rehabilitation efforts. The newspapers said that a large amount of Hogwarts’ return to its former glory was a result of his hard work, but he knew that it was his only way to stave off the guilt for his role in its destruction.

 

It was funny, he supposed, how naivete and a thirst for a father’s love drove one to the most horrible actions one could imagine. He justified it the only way he knew how: he had done whatever it took to save his mother, even though it had meant destroying a bit of himself in the process.

 

The silence between the two grew unbearable, but Draco refused to be the one to break it, instead inspecting himself for remaining snow clinging to his clothes. 

 

“So,” Hermione said, breaking the silence, “you look well?” 

 

The duo made eye contact once more, and both cracked awkward grins.

 

“Yeah, that was weird,” she muttered. “Well, I’ll go. I just came out to get some fresh air. Happy Christmas.” Hermione looked like she was about to bolt. 

 

Draco could hear laughter and the quiet strains of Christmas music through the thick wooden door. He had no doubt that the atmosphere was warm and cozy, bursting with the high spirits of the holidays, friendship, and the buzz of alcohol. He didn’t want the witch to leave, so he reached out and grabbed her hand as she turned to flee into the crowded pub.

 

Hermione turned half a step, peering up into his gray eyes. The question in them was unmistakable.  _ Why? _

 

“I’m good—well, I’m okay,” he stammered out, a little too transparently for his taste. Her eyebrows crinkled together, still confused. “You said I looked well.” 

 

Some of the confusion cleared from Hermione’s eyes, and she huffed out a laugh. “Right. You’re okay. Well, that’s good to hear.” Her grip tightened on his hand, and both of them realized that they were still clasping one another’s fingers. Draco quickly let go and pulled his hand back. 

 

“How are you? I assume you’re faring well, too?”  

 

Hermione smiled softly at the ground. “Well enough. The Ministry Christmas gala was today. It was stuffy—you know how those affairs are,” their brief eye contact showed the laughter deep in her eyes. “And I needed to wind down before I went home. One thing led to another and—here I am.” She gestured over her shoulder once more. 

 

Draco laughed. “You don’t sound too thrilled about that.”

 

It’s not that I’m not happy to be here.” She grimaced. “It’s just been a long day. Ron was at the gala with his newest girlfriend, so I third-wheeled while he fawned all over her. Small talk is not my forte.”

 

“Understandable,” Draco murmured. He couldn’t help but notice that she’d been trying to covertly edge away back toward the door, and her cheeks predictably flamed a brilliant red when he said, “It probably doesn’t help to run into another ex when you came here to escape.”

 

She stammered, obviously looking for something appropriate to say. Draco frowned sadly and backed away a step. “Don’t apologize. I was the one who left, so I understand. I was just admiring the lights, so I’ll leave you to your Christmas escape.”

 

He was turning to leave when he heard her sigh. “Draco, wait.”

 

He stopped, a brow arched at her command.

 

“I don’t mind seeing you. I’m actually glad that I—quite literally—ran into you. I’ve been meaning to stop by.” She bit down on her lip, conflicted. 

 

Being in Slytherin House had taught Draco that silence was more powerful than words sometimes. However, in the face of the curly-haired witch, his mind wouldn’t stop racing with questions.  _ Why did you mean to stop by? Will you  _ please _ stop biting your lip? You know what that does to me. Have you let your hair grow longer? Do you know how much I miss you?  _ He knew, however, that he’d get far more information if he forced her to fill the silence. Gryffindors could be quite predictable, and his Hermione was no different. 

 

She screwed her eyes shut and said, “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, it’s just—I’ve been drinking cause it was a shite day, and I don’t want to say or do something stupid.” She cracked her eyes open and grinned wryly up at him. “You make me a bit mental.”

 

Draco couldn’t stop the laugh that huffed out of him. He decided to take a chance, though he didn’t expect much from it. Maybe it was the spirit of Christmas and the unappealing idea of going home to his empty flat, but he couldn’t help the hopeful lilt to his words. “May I dance with you? Once?” Draco glanced down at her with hooded eyes. “I promise to leave you alone after that.”

 

Hermione pursed her lips, then shrugged. The alcohol she’d consumed must have bolstered her already overwhelming amount of courage because she crossed her arms and glared imperiously up at him, only the twinkle in her eyes giving away that she was teasing him. “One dance.” She turned to the door and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “And you’d better not step on my toes.” 

 

* * *

 

One dance quickly turned into two, which turned into three. Draco kept telling himself that he would leave after the next song, but he couldn’t disentangle himself from the beautiful witch in his arms. Not when she actually smiled at him again. He’d missed her smiles. 

 

After the fourth dance together, Draco stepped out of her arms and was met with a disappointed frown.  _ Perhaps she’s had more fire whiskey than she realizes?  _ He held up his arms in surrender and said, “I just need a drink. It’s been a while since I’ve danced so much.”

 

Hermione nodded and made to follow him off the floor with a mumbled, “Good idea.”

 

Somehow, on the walk off the dance floor, they’d become separated by a group of witches celebrating a bachelorette party. They squealed and danced toward Draco, but a firm shake of his head sent them back the other direction. 

 

As he made his way toward the bar, he scanned the crowd for the bushy mane of hair that stood out in the crowd. He’d nearly made it to the counter when a hand shot out of a dimly lit alcove and pulled him inside.

 

Hermione stood before him in the narrow space, her cheeks flushed from dancing and pupils blown wide from the alcohol she’d consumed before their abrupt meeting. He hair was wilder than he’d ever seen it, save maybe the day she’d tried to brew Draught of Living Death in Potions sixth year. Even still, she looked beautiful. Happy. She looked more carefree than he’d seen her in a long time.

 

Answering the question that was no doubt in his eyes, Hermione pointed upwards. Following her finger, Draco immediately spotted the object that had caught her attention. There, hanging from the rafters, was a sprig of mistletoe, complete with a red ribbon and tiny bow. Conveniently placed, he thought, for a couple to sneak away from the crowd and snog. If they were caught, they could blame it on tradition; you simply  _ had  _ to snog under the mistletoe. Draco’s heartbeat sped up.

 

“Hermione—” he trailed off. He’d wanted to kiss her all night as they danced, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to. She’d had a bad day and come to drink and dance it off. It seemed like taking advantage of her if he did. 

 

Hermione raised up on her tiptoes, her lips ghosting over his jaw. Draco could smell the firewhiskey on her breath as he took a deep breath in to quell the urge to pull her against him and bury his face in her curls. 

 

This witch was not one that was easily deterred. Even in their short relationship together after the War, she’d been fiercely determined to get what she wanted. 

 

“Hermione, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he murmured as her hands snaked up his chest and tangled in his blond locks. He swallowed a groan when her nails scraped his scalp.

 

“Why? Are you afraid, Malfoy?” she grinned up at him through her lashes. “Surely a little mistletoe isn’t enough to frighten big, bad, Draco Malfoy.” She punctuated each word with a fluttering kiss.

 

“Scared of the mistletoe? Of course not. Scared of you?” Draco leaned back to meet her eyes. He wasn’t openly honest often, so he wanted to be sure that she knew he was serious. “You absolutely terrify me.” With a sigh of resignation, Draco crashed his lips into hers. 

 

She was soft and inviting, yielding where he forged forward.  _ I should stop _ , he thought, but she sighed invitingly into his mouth and melted against him. His arms went around the witch and pulled her close, careful not to break the kiss. It was only when her tongue brushed against his lips asking admittance that he pulled away and leaned his forehead against hers, their breath mingling together.

 

“Well, that was one hell of a mistletoe kiss,” Hermione breathed on a giggle, her fingertips ghosting over her lips. 

 

Draco’s lips quirked up into a crooked grin as he fought to control his racing heartbeat. “Malfoys don’t fear much, let alone some mistletoe.” He pulled on a wiry curl as he said it.

 

“And yet you’re absolutely terrified of me since you ran away from me like an angry hippogryph was on your tail the last time we were alone.” Her raised eyebrow dared him to object.

 

Draco couldn’t. Following the War, he’d been a mess; the whole of the wizarding world knew it and steered clear of him. When he’d finally gotten ahold of himself enough to leave his parent's manor, he’d stumbled across a support group on a whim. “Survivors of the Wizarding War,” the sign had read. “Meets Tuesdays at 6 pm in the Three Broomsticks.”

 

On a whim, he’d decided to go. He had paced up and down the lane that the tavern sat on and finally, at nearly a quarter past six, he’d thrown himself into the pub, determined to say that he’d at least walked through the door. Conversations had immediately halted, and he had looked around, horrified that every eye rested on him, even his Malfoy pride forsaking him in the face of the open stares. As he spun around to leave, her soft voice called to him and told him to take a seat. He was powerless to do otherwise, so he flopped into the nearest folding chair. His arse had been numb by the end of the night, and he hadn’t uttered a single word, but he had stayed. 

 

He returned, week after week. He rarely spoke, but, when he did, it was mostly noncommittal murmurs of support to the other attendees. He’d been more afraid of their judgment than anything, but he supposed that everyone in the group had moved on from the shock of a former Death Eater in their midst and accepted it; he was, after all, just a child when he’d gotten mixed up in the entire mess. It was hard to stay angry at someone who simply tried to protect his family.

 

He slowly started coming out of his shell at the meetings and made small talk with everyone, usually sharing friendly smiles. And then, one day, he’d decided to share.

 

To this day, he couldn’t be sure why he’d started talking. Maybe it was the way that Hermione always seemed to catch his eyes, that sparkle in hers daring him to speak. Maybe he just got tired of the unending ache in his chest that he was wrong, that his family was wrong, that  _ the whole damn War _ was wrong. 

 

There was no difference in their blood, he’d realized. A delusional man had preyed on the fears of an isolated group of people and used it to build his own empire, nevermind that he built that empire on the broken bodies of others.    
  
That day at the support group, he’d seen more understanding in the eyes of his peers than he’d ever seen at school. They knew what it was like to be so scared that you were forced to do whatever you could to survive. They sympathized with him. Most importantly, they forgave him.

 

Draco had come to realize, with the help of the group and Hermione, that most of his prejudices had a false foundation. After that, it was easy to fall for the charms of the pretty witch in his arms.

 

Hermione had been quiet since the accusation. Watching him, he supposed. She raised a hand up to his forehead and gently rubbed the line between his eyebrows that he hadn’t realized was there, bringing him back to the present. “Sickle for your thoughts?”

 

He grinned wryly and turned away. “Just remembering. You sure don’t know how to let a wizard off easy.”

 

Hermione sucked her lip between her teeth and worried it. Unbidden, his hand raised and freed it from between her teeth. She was silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t take kindly to the man I was falling in love with running away from me.” All traces of the liquor she’d consumed had disappeared from her eyes and was replaced with stark honesty. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut.

 

He swallowed thickly around the knot in his throat and met her eyes. “F—falling in love?” 

 

Hermione nodded and glanced away, once again worrying her lip between her teeth. Draco’s heart pounded in his ears. He knew that they’d gotten quite serious very quickly—after only one month, they had nearly always been together. She was the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing he saw when he went to bed. She’d started leaving her toothbrush at his house, and she’d constantly made vague allusions to when they lived together permanently. He’d been shocked speechless the first time she mentioned it, casually thrown into the conversation, as though they’d discussed it at length. 

 

That was when he’d begun to pull away. He had been falling in love with her—how couldn’t he? She was beautiful and witty. She absolutely infuriated him, but in the best way possible. She challenged him like no one else had ever challenged him before; he looked forward to every conversation they had because he knew that they’d both learn something. 

 

She was far superior to him in every way, but she’d somehow still chosen him. Despite his part in the war. Despite the ugly stain on his forearm that still taunted him. 

 

But he’d known. He’d known that she would get shite for choosing him. He was a Death Eater, despite the forgiveness and acceptance of the small group of people he sat with every Tuesday. Everyone expected her to marry Ron, another third of the Golden Trio and everyone’s favorite sidekick. He could never measure up to that, so he’d run. 

 

He’d broken his own heart in the process, but he ran. He’d frozen her out and stopped responding to her advances. She eventually stopped trying, but it took longer than he anticipated. He almost cracked several times, but he’d thought it was for the better. The morning he woke up to her missing toothbrush, he’d known that he had likely thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to him.

 

But now, the witch stood in front of him, uncertainty swimming in her eyes as she told him that she loved him.

 

Hermione shook her head in the face of his silence and began to skirt around him. Her disappointed flush crawled up her cheeks as she said,  “You were right. This was a bad idea.” 

 

Hermione didn’t make it another step before Draco’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her into another kiss, this one softer and sweeter than the first. His hands glided up her arms to cradle her face, his thumbs ghosting over her cheeks. He peppered kisses over her lips before he pulled away, eyes still closed, though his thumbs continued their gentle exploration of her cheek.

 

“What was that for?” Hermione queried quietly. Draco could feel her pulse thundering under his splayed fingers.

 

He couldn’t bear to open his eyes to see her expression. “That was supposed to be an ‘I’m sorry I’m an arsehole, please give me another chance’ kiss.”

 

A small puff of air escaped her, though he couldn’t tell if it was disbelief or amusement. “You are an arsehole.” She paused, and he felt his heart drop. “Though that was a compelling case for another chance.”

 

He finally opened his eyes and looked down at her. Hermione was smiling up at him, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. One of her hands disentangled itself from the front of his shirt— _ when had that happened? _ —and smoothed up his arm to cup his hand. Slowly, she pulled it away from her cheek and turned her head, planting a small kiss on his palm.

 

“Does that mean that I’m not wholly irredeemable?” he managed to croak out, too anxious to be embarrassed by the slight crack in his voice.

 

She smiled gently. “I believe the spirits of Christmas and mistletoe deem that you are quite redeemable. And I’d love to be the one to show you if you’ll trust me enough not to run away again.”

 

Draco choked on a laugh at his own expense. “I promise, I won’t run again. I just didn’t want to subject you to any kind of judgment—” He was silenced when her other hand clapped over his mouth.

 

“Draco, hush. You’re killing the moment,” she chastised.

 

He nodded against her palm and pulled her close again. Just before their lips touched, he asked, “Did you mean it? That you were falling in love?”

 

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I think I may have downplayed the level of feeling in order to protect my pride.”

 

His heart swelled in his chest at her confession, and he closed the distance between them, snogging her soundly. “Good. Because I love you, too. I missed you.” 

 

The reunited couple spent several more minutes snogging in the alcove of the Three Broomsticks, Christmas Eve winding down into the early minutes of Christmas Day, before apparating back to his flat. They fell asleep curled together, his arms wrapped around her middle and her hair spread wildly across the pillow. He was sure that he would inhale some of it in his sleep, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. She was back with him, right where she belonged.

 

Draco might have slipped out of bed early the next morning to send his owl to retrieve a new toothbrush for her to keep in his flat; he was taking no chances with his witch again. 

 

His Gryffindor had charmed her way right back into his arms. Oh, he had leaps and bounds to go to make up for his mistake, but he’d do anything to make it up to the woman in his arms.

 

And if in a few years, Hermione admitted to charming an old handkerchief into the mistletoe that had been in the alcove to give herself an excuse to kiss him, he would never hold it against her. She’d brought herself back to him. She’d found him in the dark again, just as she had in the group all those years before. 

 

His Christmas miracle, all because a door had knocked him on his arse. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thank you for taking the time to read this fic. Merry Christmas to my prompt-giver! I had so much fun writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please let me know what you think. Reviews are love!


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